The Howl of the Hunter
by Blue Flaming Wings
Summary: Years have come and gone since the Infection, and the world has begun to slowly recover from those dreadful days. But the question remains, though the world is healing what exactly is the fate of humanity?
1. It was Raining

I can just imagine that many of my old readers (if I even have any now) are going "What? A new story? What gives?" Especially since it's been so long since I last updated my Zelda fanfic. Well, as a bit of encouragement: No, I'm not dead. No, I'm not going to drop Land of Legends, but yes, I have a new fanfic out, and now I hope that both this one and my old Land of Legends will get some much needed attention.

Now, for both new and old readers. Here's something you should know about this fanfic. This story is based a couple decades after the events of Left 4 Dead. I have yet to decide if any of the Survivors will be making a appearance, though the four of them will be mentioned from time to time. Also, things may or may not change once Left 4 Dead 2 comes out. I believe, since this is so far into the future and in a separate location entirely then the deep south, there's nothing much to fear.

Anyway, if you have any criticisms, questions or comments feel free to leave a review or two.

Now, enjoy!

PS: It's a working title.

The Howl of the Hunter

Chapter 1: It Was Raining

_I was thrown back against the oaken desk in my brother's room, the one he use to spent hours hunched over, furiously working on studying so he could get into his precious Harvard. The same brother that was now crouched on all fours, eyes bloodshot, mouth foaming, teeth and hands now fangs and claws, whose head was reared up and letting out a ungodly, undulating howl, one that I knew had to be tearing apart his vocal cords, but Ed was far past caring about anything at that point, much less his own pain. _

_As I sat there, the desk groaning under my weight, as I looked into his mad eyes, I knew, I knew, there was one thing and one thing only this monster cared about, and it was blood. My blood. He wanted to kill, kill, kill, kill...and, lucky me, I happened to be the only living thing in the room. Yet, despite this, I couldn't move. I couldn't reach over to the baseball bat that was leaning casually against the closet door, the very same bat I was planning on using this weekend as Ed helped me prepare for the fall season. I couldn't do it. I couldn't hurt him. I couldn't even begin to comprehend that this situation was real. It had to be some sort of sick joke. _

_Sick...sick was the right word. _

_The monster in Ed's skin lunged, screaming out, yelling out, howling out a sound that maybe, just maybe, might be mistaken for a word. Rain, perhaps, Rate, who knows? Who cares? The scream sounded out like a bullhorn, and the next thing I knew he was there in front of me, grabbing my shoulders, pivoting around and throwing me onto Ed's bed, so neatly made and smelling of musky books. Before I could blink the monster was on top of me, pinning me down and, with a single flick of his wrists, darting towards my eyes..._

_The last thing I saw before the pain erupted and tore apart the world was the monster's needle-like nails, stabbing into my eye sockets. The last thing I felt was the torrents, the flood, of blood pouring down my face to stain Ed's white pillow, but the last thing I heard was a howl. A howl of extreme, endless, limitless, profound pain, the pain of a person who was experiencing something that came boiling out straight from their nightmares, feeling something that simply should not, **could** not exist, a pain that thousands, millions, billions of people, all around the world, were experiencing at that very moment, on that very day, when all hell broke loose. _

_To this day, I do not know if that howl came from my lips or Ed's. _

An excerpt from _When the Infection Spread: Through the Eyes of a Blind Survivor_

By: Theodore Grendlin 

It was slightly overcast, Private Joshuason noted mildly, but at the time he thought nothing of it.

After all, there were many odd things about the outside world, the young man was beginning to realize. There were paradoxes, contradictions, and conflicting phases and forms of life in every little nook and cranny that he gazed at. For instance, on the surface of things, it would appear that save for the noise that the four man team was making as they scourged through the blasted ruins of the once lively city there was a all consuming silence that could only be achieved when a large area of land was utterly devoid of life. A type of quietness that encouraged solitude and melancholy thoughts, a state of mind which the slowly approaching storm all but emphasized with. Yet, below the silence, there were other minute sounds, like the rustle of the leaves on the towering trees and other shrubbery that have, over the last few decades, begun to tear down and reshape the city ruins. There were the pops and snaps that echoed forth as ancient glass shards became crushed under his CIOSES (That would be the Compound Issued Oxygen Sealed Engery Suit, his inner semanticist snidely stated) boots, there were the sights of stone, metal, brick and wooden structures, once so solidly standing, now collapsed mounds of moss-covered rubble, and most importantly of all, there was the stench of rotting flesh, death and smoke, which Joshuason could just barely smell through his helmet's filter, and which he knew, intellectually, should _not_ be there at all. After all, the fires that so engulfed this city died out many years ago, and the hundreds of corpses that had this ruin their graveyard had been stripped of flesh for just as long.

Perhaps, it should not be surprising that the Infection had left its mark even on the smell of the air.

Private Victor Joshuason shivered at that morbid thought, and couldn't help but scowl under the faceless mask of his CIOSES helmet. Though he had only been out of the Compound for half a day, already he wished to turn on his heel and reemerge himself into the underground bunker that he called his home. For every man, woman and child who had been born and raised within the Compound there had been a time in their life where they had wondered just what awaited them outside that twelve feet deep metal gate called the Barrier. They were all taught about the sky, the stars, the trees, the rocks, the plants, and everything else that even remotely involved the old world. But, to actually step outside the Barrier, out of the quarantine, was a whole other matter entirely.

A sudden sound erupted out of the tense silence, and immediately the Private reared up his CI-G1.

His feet were moving of their own accord, and before he knew it, he felt a armored shoulder and sides brush against his armored shoulders and sides, as he, Sergeant Dealths, Corporal Steven and Corporal Edison formed up into a tight square formation, with their Compound issued guns pointed outwards and their backs facing inwards. Idly, Joshuason noted that he was the one facing farthest away from the origin of the noise, and that Corporal Edison, with his massive frame and heavy turret like minigun in his grasp, was glaring into the darken shell of a windowless building with a fallen flagpole and long since faded American flag lying in the graveled parking lot before it. A breeze blew by and the gray clouds swirled above. Silence reigned once more.

The death-like tension stretched out for mere moments, until, slowly, a small, tawny head poked out from one of the square gaps where windows once stood. Pointed ears, yellow eyes with slit like pupils, and a fur engulfed face stared out at them, and then, just as quickly, the creature darted back inside, a high pitched screech of fear piercing the stillness as the flash of orange faded.

It was only later that Joshuason realized that the small creature was, in fact, a cat.

Sergeant Dealth was the first to speak, his monotonous voice flickering with static over the intercom, "False alarm. Break formation." And just like that, with a mere beep to signal the end of the radio's transmittance, silence descended once more. The young private did not need to be told twice, he stepped aside, hearing the gravel crunch beneath his boots.

"But Sarge! I really wanted to shoot it!" Corporal Steven whinnied, and inwardly Joshuason flinched. Carl Steven was his cousin, from his mother's side, that entire lot was rather odd, and though the private was very grateful that his older and far more experienced relative had recommended him so for this mission, he couldn't help but wince whenever the man opened his mouth due to the in-decorum that was infused in all he did. "That was the first live thing I've seen all day, come on, have any of ya ever tried cat fillet?"

Corporal Edison let go of his massive gun and instead leaned on it, the only sign that its weight effected him at all, as he turned to his companion, "We got rations back in the van. Besides, it wouldn't be worth the waste of ammo."

"Of course it would for that slab of metal you call a gun," Corporal Stevens said with a indignant air, Joshuason could almost imagine the smirk on the red-head's lips as he said it, Vincent would recognize that tone of voice any day of the week, Carl used it all the time whenever the whole family got together. But it was one thing to be so casual around family, but to your superiors!

But Joshuason's mortification was pushed aside for a moment after Stevens' next words.

"I was going to ask Private Bolts for Brains to shoot it, after all, his 10 millimeter is worth less than my boot." Normally, even with Joshuason's firm self control, the private would have snapped at the taunt, but at the moment his curiosity won over his ire. The private twisted around and cast a look at his cousin.

"10 millimeter?"

Stevens simply shrugged, and Joshuason couldn't help but note, again, how odd it was that though all four of them looked utterly identical in their CIOSES that Stevens always managed to put his own flair on things. If there were a hundred men all lined up, suited and armored in the Compound's energy suits Joshuason had no doubt he would easily be able to pick out Stevens from the line up. He'll probably be the one who would be jumping up and down and waving his arms around like a idiot.

"It's what they use to call that make of pistol before the Infection. Nowadays its CI-G3 or CI-G4 -"

It was then, _finally_, that the Sergeant spoke up, slamming into the small talk with all the force of a two ton wrecking ball. But instead of snapping at Stevens to shut his trap like Vincent was expecting him to, the Sergeant instead honed his black tinted lenses gaze on him.

"Private. Step off the flag."

Startled, he looked down, and, sure enough, the Stripes and Stars were scrunched up under his heel.

Joshuason jumped away from the flag as if it were molten lava that was devouring his foot.

Vincent didn't dare glance over at Carl, because he knew his cousin would be struggling not to burst out laughing. Underneath his helmet, Joshuason grounded his teeth together, but, when he gazed up at the Sergeant and finally spoke, his tone was controlled and cowed. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"No. I don't suppose it will." Through the monotonous voice, Joshuason thought he caught a hint of a odd longing. Just a flicker though, so he figured he was simply imagining things. After all, the nickname for Sergeant Dealth among most of the higher ranking officers of the Compound was Deadpan Dealth. One had a better chance trying to gauge the mood of a statue off it's face then trying to gauge Dealth's feelings from his expression. Though Joshuason, being at the bottom rung of the barrel, had never had the privilege of seeing his commanding officer's features, from what he heard from those who have had the dubious honor, the man's helmet was more lively then his actual face.

The small chance to relax was over, they knew, the moment that Dealth decided to interrupt their conversation. Joshuason could still remember the Sergeant's steely tone even months after he was officially introduced to Squad Centurion, almost taste the pure authority in the man's words as he made clear that on their own time, they could jest, joke, relax, and chide each other all they pleased, but on _his_ time, they better damn well work, and work hard.

The four of them had loaded up the last of the necessary supplies from this small town hours ago, specifically bags of flour, seed, cloth, and piles of metal, glass and plastic, to be melted down and remolded. Though they had also collected pieces that held esthetic value, particularly of note was a remarkably preserved painting that the Sergeant said was worth millions even _before_ the Infection.

How exactly he knew this, none in their party had dared to ask.

After they had finished loading up, the four of them had refueled their near empty tanks with fresh oxygen, and then stepped back out into the waiting world again. This was the time that Joshuason looked forward to the most. It was a hour or two of pure exploration, where they, as a team, decided where to go and what to see and were allowed to pick up trinkets to give to family members. In fact, Vincent had given his little sister Liz a stuffed teddy bear on their last trip.

Corporal Edison, however, collected skeletons, that was another thing none of them dared to question.

Even now, as they were silently walking back to the Van, the burly man was gazing at a slightly deformed human skull at one moment, and then a hand that was missing a thumb the next, but, it seemed that these did not meet up to whatever standard the giant man had, for he gently placed them down, right where they had once laid before and was on his way again, his minigun held firmly in his large palms.

Vincent Joshuason had a identical education to that of every child in the Compound. So, he has heard about cars before, and had even seen clips, both of just surveillance footage and actual movies that were watched before the Infection for entertainment. But the Van, though technically a automobile just like all those other vehicles, was of another kind of species altogether.

After all, most cars weren't fourteen feet tall back then.

Indeed, the Van was a car in the similar way a mountain was a hill. It had all the same features, but it was irreconcilably bulkier and thicker and slower. But Vans like these had saved many a Survivor during the Infection, for no Infected could pierce through that iron skin, not even those that had underwent heavy mutations. As Joshuason approached the metal rectangle on wheels, he couldn't help but feel like a tin soldier, with his armored body and handgun.

Despite the massive frame of the vehicle, Joshuason was always surprised by how cramped it was inside. After all, there were only one real seat, the driver's seat, which had exactly enough space for one person to sit, everything else was storage space. During the time of the Infection, the vast space would have housed hundreds of Survivors, their own few possessions, racks of weapons to fight off the Hordes, and primitive models of the CIOSES, really nothing more then modified Scuba gear. In the end, even if the Survivors ended up making it all the way safely into a Safe Zone, of which the Compound was one, still they would not be assured to live, for many were considered to be Tainted, and had to be gassed in order to make sure the Safe Zones did not become Infected.

The Dying Times indeed.

Vincent was stirred out of his morbid thoughts when the Sergeant briskly went over to the number pad that was imbedded in between the handles of the Van and began to punch in the password. It was a archaic defense system, one that was formed hundreds of years prior to the Infection, but it was more then effective against the Infected themselves, who had been incapable of rational thought. They had merely punched and clawed and screamed at the Van, and were even unable to probably think of getting out of the way as the large vehicle ran them over.

Dealth yanked the twin metal doors open, before stepping to the side. Immediately, the four of them were greeted with the sight of a long, vast chamber, filled with dozens of sacks, crates and barrels. Along each wall were racks filled a vast assortment of guns, mainly the Sergeant's CI-G2 and Steven's CI-G4, though, in the back corner, where several of his own make of CI-G1s and two backup CI-G24s for Corporal Edison. Though if the man would ever be forced to use a spare minigun, then Vincent knew they were all in for it.

On the far opposite side was a steel wall that acted as a divider between this section of the Van and the next. Right in the middle of the steel wall was a locked door, which led to the other three compartments of the Van, CIVB, CIVC, CIVD, respectively. Each one held materials that were more essential, prominent and classified then the last. It was even rumored that the Founders had ordered for live Infected to be brought into the Compound in order to be experimented on. But Joshuason didn't buy it, if such a breach of the law ever did happen, there wouldn't be a Compound at all today. They would have all become Infected and killed each other off a long time ago.

Sergeant Dealth turned to his three underlings and firmly stated, "Corporal Alpha, inspect, disassemble and repair all the Compound Issued Guns, including the ones that are not currently in use." He stated the last part firmly, which caused both Edison and Vincent to burst out laughing and Carl Stevens to groan. They all remembered what happened the last time he tried to weasel out of doing work by selective interpretation of Dealth's orders. The Sergeant turned his gaze on Edison, "Corporal Omega, inspect, disassemble, refuel and repair all the Compound Issued Oxygen Sealed Energy Suits, and your own Compound Issued Guns #24. Private, go over the inventory and triple check to make sure we have acquired the necessities. Then make a list of all the supplies we will need to scavenge at our next location and mark out the primary focuses on the map. It is in file 9-FC."

With that he turned on his heel and walked away.

It was short work for the three of them to grab the twin doors and shut them closed. It was also simple work to activate the cleansing cycle, where all the air in this compartment was sucked out and released outside and new, regulated oxygen supplied within. By the time the bell chimed within the small chamber, signifying that it was now safe to strip off the CIOSES suits, the three of them had already been hard at work, and the Van had already steadily begun to move.

Not even seconds after the dime sounded out Vincent heard the sizzle of a CIOSES helmet being removed. Almost on reflex, the young man turned around to see Stevens removing his gas-mask to reveal short-cropped crimson hair, a hail of freckles and that goofy grin that was always plastered on his face. The man wasn't even bothering to pretend to be working on the guns, but was giving Joshuason a smirk.

"Sooo," He began, drawing out the word, "A triple check, huh? What the hell did you do, Cuz?"

Vincent merely shrugged, turning his attention back to his clipboard and then towards the crate before him with its lip pried open. Behind him, he heard the clanking of metal as Edison stripped himself of his energy suit completely, letting the individual pieces fall with a heave to the ground. Despite himself, Joshuason stole a peak. He still remembered how surprised he had been when, underneath all that metal, Roland Edison had turned out to be a rather lithe looking Latino. Both over the fact he had expected the man to be quite a bit more burly, and also over the pure statistical reality that there weren't any Hispanics within the Compound at all. Edison was the only one he had ever seen, and would probably be the only one he ever would see.

Midway, Edison paused, glancing up at the helmet less Stevens and asked, "Do you hear that?"

Confusion bloomed into life on Carl's face, making his freckles scrunch up, "Hear what?"

Joshuason ignored them both as he pulled his mind into a blankness, a hollowness that filled his body and mind, and managed to push every other distraction aside. It was a odd state, but one that he managed to pull himself into dozens of times before. Instantly, both Stevens and Edison fell silent, and both of them were glancing at Vincent with apparent unease. They had seen that listless look in his eyes before, on a couple rare occasions, and both couldn't help but feel that there was something distinctly eerie about the young man when he was like this. It was almost as if he was standing on the precipice of some other realm, listening to echoing voices, sensing things that simply should not be sensed.

It was because of this, that Vincent alone was able to make out the soft pings that echoed off the top of the Van, but, it was not merely the sound that heard, but rather the entirety of its being, the feel and touch of its wetness, and the faint, blurred sight of it, as it crashed down on the metal roof, and the grass, dirt and pavement that made the road beneath them. A understanding, one that was perhaps a bit too clear, one with a touch of a otherworldly quality to it.

A second later Vincent's eyes opened and life flooded into them again.

"It is raining." He said simply, oblivious to his comrades' nervousness.

As with Dealth and Roland's odd traits this was something that they all silently agreed not to mention.


	2. Simi Val

Howl of the Hunter

Chapter Two: Simi Val

_No one ever forgets the sight of a Horde. _

_Ya know, when you're in school, they always tell you that the world is...was...filled with billions of people. But the true reality of that statement never truly settled in until that day, the day the Infection struck my home. Rothwind is a small town, and I always bemoaned that fact to my friends. I complained about how nothing ever happened here; nothing exciting anyways. Sure, there were a few thousand people here, and sure, I realized even then, that all those lives were connected in a tangle of a complex web, where daily interactions, personalities, thoughts, feelings and experiences of men and women of all kinds thrust onto each other. There was the occasional shoplifting, the town drunkard and junkies always liked to cause a scene or two, and even once we had a murderer in our midst, a decade or two ago. But, compared to the things we heard daily on the news, the problems in Iraq, the churning of politics and the frustrations of a steadily declining economy, well, it made our issues seem insignificant. _

_But then, in the wake of the Infection, all previous concerns were made insignificant. Nothing compared to the force that destroyed the world. _

_I always wanted to be different. Always wanted to stand out. Always wanted to have a adventure, have something exciting, thrilling, unique, happen to me and me alone. Well, my wish was granted. When the Infection hit, I quickly realized that my town, my small Rothwind, was a anomaly after all. A town of 5,322 people, and, of all those people, all those individuals, all those human beings, who brushed together, side by side, many unknowingly, on a daily basis. There were only ten who were immune. If there were more – well, the Immunizes are dead now. _

_I still remember the scene vividly, even after twenty two years. I've seen it every night in my nightmares, without fail. I've been to Doctor Emerson several times, asking for pills that could give me a dreamless rest, for once, but they never work. __Ambien, __Zolpidem, Remifemin, they never work. The only relief I had, during those rough starting weeks I had, once in the Safe Zone, was the knowledge that all the other Survivors were going through the same situation. They all were facing the same horrors and insanity in their dreams. Screams echoed through the hallways during the night. Suicides were as common as the rising sun, and almost as inevitable. _

_Hopefully, in near future, such a thing will seem unbelievable to the future generations. That is my hope, that the Infection is done with, and that humanity's descendants will be so removed and detached from those horrible times that the apocalypse will seem like nothing but a horror story, to say cuddled up before a bonfire. But for me, and for every other Survivor, the memories will never fade. _

_I said it before, and I'll say it again. No one ever forgets what it feels like to be chased down by a Horde. _

_The noise of thousands of dashing feet, many barefoot, slapping against the asphalt. The sound of shrieks, howls, screams, so inhuman and uncanny, filling the night air. Their speed, their sheer agility that caused me and the others to run faster then we've ever had to before, just to keep a hairsbreadth of a gap between us and the Horde. The first to fall was Johnny, who was slightly chubby, but still in better condition then most of the kids back at my old high school. But still, he wasn't fit enough, for he __was dragged down to the ground, and the Horde literally froze, for a half a second, as nearly two dozen of the Infected jumped on him, clawing and biting and punching and mauling, all the while Johnny's screams, bloodcurdling and horrified, pierced up above the canopy of noise that the Infected made. But, at the time – and I remember this clearly, though I desperately wish I didn't – at the time, I thought, _Good, that will keep them off us for a minute to two. _Cold, uncaring, merciless, heartless. I know it. I know it! But I thought nothing then but of my own survival, nothing but getting past the horde and getting into the Safe House and hope, against all odds, that there would be something, anything there for me to defend myself with. A bat, a gun, a stick – anything to keep the Horde at bay. _

_Yet still, I couldn't help myself from casting one last glance over my shoulder, even though the other Survivors had already jumped into the Safe House, and several were calling out for me to hurry in. I had to stop, I had to look. I was surprised by what I saw. Later, I would wonder why, why it was that one sight, more then anything else, that had so unnerved me, after all, I had seen far worse. I should have been expecting it, even. With the way everything had become after the Infection. _

_It was Erika, Johnny's girlfriend of five years, who killed him by ripping out a chunk of his neck. _

An article from the newspaper, _The Redwood Words_, written by Frank Ostrich

There was a long quite stretch for a while, where the only thing that Private Joshuason could hear was the crunching of the graveled highway beneath the Van's wheels. This happened for such an extended period that the young man decided that it was safe enough to get to his feet and continue his inspection of the inventory. With pen and clipboard in hand, Joshuason began to sweep through the crates, sacks and barrels, triple checking as per orders. As he did, he let his mind extend outwards, past the cold metal shielding of the Van's sides, to the world beyond. His ears he strained the most – trying to catch sign of – oh! Yes! There it was.

Private Joshuason glanced up from the barrel before him that was filled with fish, those at the bottom sentenced for scientific examination, and those at the top – separated by a knotted net – meant to be fried and purified of any lingering pathogens. He had been copying the number that had been clearly printed on the side of the barrel – after all – he couldn't actually open any of the stored materials – they were all contaminated – when he had heard the sound he had been searching for. He spun his head around to look at his two comrades – oblivious to their sudden unease and the leaden glaze to his eyes – turning them from charcoal to creamy in an instant.

"I can hear the ocean." He stated simply, as the Van struck a ditch and jumped a inch in the air. Upon landing again, Joshuason had blinked. When his eyes opened, all was normal once more. "We've been traveling for a hour now, yet we're still right next to the Pacific. I never realized something could be so...massive."

Corporal Edison jumped at the opportunity to talk, which was very odd considering he avoided social interaction like the Infection. "Aye. And I heard that the Atlantic is just as big – maybe even bigger. I was just reading this interview from a Survivor in the newspaper the other day, and she was sayin' that when she was a lass her told her that 3/4s of the world is covered in water and –"

"That men walked on the moon, that a fat fella in red delivered goodies once a year on a flying sleigh, that there were bums that could destroy the world five times over, and that there was some nutcase thousands of years ago who claimed to be God and thousands of other nutjobs believed him." Corporal Stevens suddenly piped, voice dripping of derision. "What of it, Corporal Omega? You can't actually believe all that bull can ya?" And then he smirked, his arms folded over his chest, eyes droopy and back slumped against the wall he had been napping against mere moments ago when he had been on a hour long "break". Stevens smirk widened even more when Corporal Edison's eyes narrowed, shoulders hunched and brows furrowed.

Corporal Edison was one of the "nutjobs" and Stevens knew it.

Needing to prevent a confrontation and also wanting to point out something he had just noted, Joshuason's voice broke through the tense silence. "You know, I've never seen the moon before." Both of them had frozen, and were looking at him now, Stevens in particular was looking at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. For a moment, the Private was afraid he had merely made the situation worse and had elevated the awkwardness, but then Stevens got to his feet and exclaimed,

"Come off it, Cuz!" But he was smiling and his eyes were glinting, so it had to be a good thing.

But nevertheless, Joshuason felt the need to defend himself. "Well, whenever we're assigned missions its always during the day. I've seen pictures, obviously, but as Corporal Stevens insinuated it is sometimes difficult to believe the old tales." Edison seemed fine with that. In fact, he was now scratching that beard of his, which was a sure sign that he was thinking hard about something. Finally he put down the CIOSES helmet that he had been polishing and then leaned back against the metal wall, locking his gaze on Joshuason.

"The moon looks pretty much like it does in the pictures. A giant white rock in the sky with craters on it."

But Stevens smirked as he threw a hand up into the air, "Funny. I always thought that it looked like a giant – "

Joshuason reacted far faster then anyone had a right too. One second he had simply been standing there, listening to his two comrades, and then the next he was throwing his clipboard and pen to the floor and diving down. Stevens and Edison were simply too surprised by the sudden action to even move, yet alone comprehend what was about to happen. A second later the entire Van shook, as there was an explosion of sound, the tearing and sheering off of metal. Then another great shake, as the sound of an explosion as a couple fuel tanks were ignited. Now nearly everything in the Van was rattling, the crates, the barrels, the racks of CI-guns and CIOSES suits. Stevens was thrown to his side, landing roughly against a lopsided woolen sack, as Edison braced himself by bending his knees and holding onto the metal walls with his big meaty hands.

Meanwhile, Joshuason was simply laying on his back, most of his body curled up underneath one of the long oak tables, as he clutched at the legs. He was completely calm, and so were his teammates, after all, they had experienced such abrupt jars before. Staring up at the polished bottom of the table on top him, Joshuason felt himself inwardly counting each and every explosion, straining his ears to hear the sounds of screeching tires and rusted metal bending like clay beneath the Van's steel-tip nose. _Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fort_-

There was a particularly loud crash and Stevens suddenly spoke up, "Truck!"

Another earsplitting crash and clang of metal. "Two of 'em." Edison noted.

Now Joshuason was frowning, but he was more curious then angry. He had been so thrown off guard on the very first mission he had been on in Squad Centurion when their otherwise scenic journey was so jarringly interrupted. But he was use to such things now, after all it was absolutely impossible to not hit thick layers of traffic pileup whenever traveling down the highways. Still, it was something that had always bothered him, so he called out, trying to make his voice rise over the din, "Isn't Seargent Dealth worried that he'll dent up the Van?"

From where he lay, back on the floor and head towards the ceiling, Joshuason had to crane his neck around to see Stevens shake his head, "Na! Are ya kidding Cuz? If the Van stopped on some tracks and one of those Metrolinks came rolling by, it would be the train that come out all torn and bent, not old faithful here! The Vans were one of the secret projects of the Gov. before the Infection, back when they were still expectin' World War III to come around any minute. It'll take a lot more then some rusted metal tombs to scar a Van!"

Edison crossed his arms over his chest as he murmured, "And here I thought you didn't buy inta stuff like that."

Stevens shot him a look and was about to say something when the Van shook again.

Now Vincent was feeling a bit of frustration, but he kept his voice level. Emotions were best left on the wayside when on duty, they could be dealt with later, right now all he wanted to know was this, "Couldn't Sergeant Dealths drive on the islands? Or even on the shoreline? Surely there would be less cars there, it'll make the ride smoother at least." By islands, of course, he meant the strip of grass, vegetation and shrubbery that separated the two lanes of those trying to head into the major city and those trying to head out. Of course, at the moment, they were driving down the highway strip that was designated for those heading into the city, since the lane heading out was nearly a wall of solid, compact metal. But neither Carl nor Roland seemed to understand the terminology, but Stevens obviously caught the gist well enough, because his cousin then exclaimed.

"Sarge has a hard on for the 'Old American Way'" He said the last words with air quotes, and then promptly tipped over onto all fours again when the Van lurched. A SUV this time, Joshuason noted, his eyes flashing white for the briefest of seconds. But when Stevens straightened up and glanced at Vincent, a rare but normal set of black eyes looked back, "I'll bet hard money on the chance he think he's doing the future USA a favor by clearing away these old roads."

That caught Joshuason off guard, "Future USA? Sergeant Dealths is a Rebirther?"

But before Stevens could respond, Edison spoke up, his gruff voice nearly a bark, "Na. He ain't. Now both of ya shut up. We've come to a clear stretch, so we best be workin'." And since the Sergeant wasn't here, that made Corporal Omega the superior officer, and they both knew a order when they heard one. Joshuason jumped to his feet, showing no signs of disorientation, and Stevens climbed up also, and grudgingly began to work.

Vincent returned to the barrel and then jotted down the number stenciled on the side. He continued on to do so, combing through the rest of the inventory for the remainder of his third rotation. A silence now loomed over the crowded chamber, as each of the soldiers continued on with their assigned task. But it was not tense as before. It was simply a quiet that naturally descends when one is devoted and focus on a action at hand. This was both good and bad, Joshuason had long decided. For while they had been talking, arguing, and rigid tension stretch between them all, then at least time had dragged on with the slow, angling pace of a weary tortoise. But now, with work to be done, time was not to be found. There was only a couple hours left till they hit their destination.

But he was nearly done now. Strolling confidently towards the metal drawers that were bolted into the wall, Joshuason went to the section that served as their file cabinet. Taking out the key from his pocket, he pulled out the drawer and began to leaf through the folders. There were twenty of them in all. Folders 1 through 4 were rarely used, for they stood for locations that were out of state, the majority being counties, cities and districts in Arizona and Oregan. Folders 5 through 15 were by far the most frequently used, and the ones that Joshuason practically had memorized. They focused solely on California, and had not only Pre-Infection maps but ones made after also, drawn on white printer paper with lead lines from thin, whittled pencils.

The first of the maps of file 9-FC, was a eagle's eye view of all the land in eighty by forty mile radius, as evident by the neat, almost computerized lettering on the side of the page. Yet the land on the map, was only in the top left hand corner alone, the majority of it was focused on a large expanse of blue that stood for the ocean, and the four nearest islands on it, the Channel Islands being most prominent. Joshuason could see read clearly the printed name of the city they had just left, _Santa Barbara_, a bit inwards from the left hand corner, right next to the thirty miles mark. He could also make the yellow line along the coast with the number 101 stamped cleanly on it near the forty. Josuason followed the winding road down, seeing a small highway branch off to the north, a 33 this time, and then cities began to bloom forth like wildflowers, San Buenaventura, Camarillo, Oxnard, and after that, the map became more and more illegible. Thous aks, Agour ills, Santa Monica _Something_ Area, the actual city of Santa Monica, LA, Inglewood and then blank, as the entire sheet became a faded, corroded white. But there, right in the heart of the map, was where their mission would take them, nearly half of the name of the city eaten away by the fading texture of the flimsy printer paper.

Simi Val.

Vincent began to run a finger down the the paper, tracing the path they had to take. They would take the 101 down through San Buenaventura, through Oxnard, Camarillo, and then into Thous aks. There they would stop before they hit Agour ills, and then go up a northern freeway, this one a _Something _3_. _ This would lead straight into a city he couldn't begin to interpret the name of, though Joshuason did think it might start with a N, and then they would take a 11 _Something_ straight into Simi Val.

Great, great directions. Joshuason was simply glad he wasn't the one trying to navigate the Squad.

The Private pulled out one of the blank sheets of paper that was inside the file cabinet and quickly began to work on naming some of the major cities that surrounded Simi Val that might be of interest. He started with the unnamed one to the west, because it was practically brushing its shoulders against their target. After that, it would seem best to take one of the side streets in the city straight into Camarillo, (odd, wasn't it, that one city could merely merge into the next like that?) and then Oxnard. Then they could follow the 101 again to hit Thous aks and Agour ills. That would make a total of five scavenging spots. He decided to add into the report that, depending on how much time is spent in each location or how much they managed to salvage, that San Fernando and Santa Clarita may be potential targets, if only because they rest on the 5, which they would need to take back anyways to head north towards the National Forest.

With that, Joshuason put aside his tidy notes and slipped the map back into the folder, before reaching into and pulling out the second map. Almost immediately Vincent's eyes widened to the size of saucer plates, and he had to forcibly stop himself from gasping. He gently placed the map back onto his lap and then rose his arm to whip at his eyes. He glanced down. Nope. Still the same.

The map was in _color_.

Now he could clearly see at the top the word Google, which he had seen so many times on these maps, were in a myriad of colors, blue, orange, yellow, green and red. But Joshuason did not waste any more time staring at the header, for the map below had so thoroughly caught his interest. The road up at the top had completely changed. It had now taken on a heavily orange tint, and Joshuason marveled over the fact that the freeways must always look like this in the maps. But he had also noticed that the name had changed, it was now the Ronald Reagan Fwy (Freeway?). But right above the freeway, there was a set of words that caught his eye, and made him smile.

_Simi Valley Town Center. _

_I have it's full name now. _He thought as he went ahead and corrected the name of the city that he had printed up on the notes, adding the extra letters. He could see now, too, that the name was repeated both up in the header and on the map itself, along one of the main roads that was in a bright yellow shade. The main streets were all bathed in yellow, while the less important ones were all a convoluted mess of gray lines and squares and rectangles and other oblong shapes. Oddly, Joshuason noticed, dissecting through the city, cutting through North Madera, a street called 1st , and another one called Eringer was this thin blue line. He figured it was meant to stand for a river, though he had no idea why any of the Pre-Infectioners would want a river to be cutting through the roads they would drive their cars down. But he made a note of it anyway, warning the Sarge that they might have to cross it on foot when they got there.

He also made amendments to the way to enter into the city. He now saw that instead of taking the – oh! It was the 23. Well, instead of taking the 23 all the way up to the 118 (he could read the name of this freeway also, the number was printed on either side of the words Ronald Reagan Fwy) they could use one of the side streets to enter into the city more quickly. Olsen, which later turned into Madera, would work and so would Tierra Rejada Road.

Joshuason found his eyes trailing back towards the top of the map, where the words Simi Valley Town Center stood out proudly. He believed that should be their end destination. He had heard of town centers before, mostly in the old history textbooks. Normally those were the hubs of the city, where the majority of the people spent their time. If there was valuables to be had, Vincent bet that it would be there.

Done with his task, Joshuason put the files neatly back into the folder and then shut the drawer and locked it once more. Then he turned back to the report he had written. He found his eyes trailing over all the odd and nonsensical terms. Yes, the Pre-Infection people were very weird. Where on earth did they come up with such names?

It was then that he heard a resounding clang as Corporal Edison dropped a CIOSES helmet on his foot. The cuss the giant of man let out was long and rumbling, but it was quickly drowned out a moment later when the Van shook again. A tanker, this time. Joshuason let himself fall back against the metal wall, letting his feet cave beneath him and his back to slide against its cool surface. It was then that he stole a glance over at Stevens, and he had to fight down his unwanted admiration.

Stevens, for all his faults, was quite a gun aficionado. If Joshuason's estimation was at all accurate, only an extra hour has passed, but already he has cleaned, repaired and reloaded all the CI-guns and stacked them up on the racks. Right now he was back to sleeping again, his velvety, silver suit, which they all wore as underclothes of sorts beneath their CIOSES, was gleaming in the florescent lights that gleamed overhead. He looked so easily content. Joshauson could never sleep with the Van jolting around so much.

The Private leaned his head against the cool metal, figuring that if he wasn't going to sleep, he should at least try to stay still. It would be a long day, going from city to city, and lugging barrels and crates and sacks back and forth from the Van. Scavenging was rather labor intensive. For one built like Edison or for someone with as much abounding energy like Stevens, that might not be so much of an issue. But Joshuason looked and was built like a twig, and had just as much stamina as one. By the end of any day on the Surface, every inch of his skin was soaked underneath his CIOSES, his muscles felt like they were about to fall off, and his lungs heaved to and fro like bellows.

Yet, despite himself, he could not conserve his energy. Something was plaguing his mind, and, as usual, whenever that happened, Joshuason found his lips parting and words flowing out of them before he could desperately drag them back in where they belonged, "We're rather close to Los Angeles"

He saw Edison turn his gaze towards him, though he never stopped his work. Roland Edison never stopped, that was one thing Vincent learned quite a while ago. But nevertheless, his voice went ahead and broke through the silence, rising over Steven's erratic snores. "Eh? What of it, kid?"

The words, _What of it?, _echoed in his mind, reminding Joshuason of the man slumbering right before him.

Obviously, Edison thought of the same thing, for he suddenly scowled, seemingly annoyed at himself, and then pried his gaze away from Joshuason's sitting figure, his eyes focusing on his CI-24, running a oily rag over one of its many thin barrels. For a moment, there was silence, and it was the awkward kind too, so Joshauason decided to break it, besides, he really did feel the urge to speak at the moment.

"Well." He began somewhat hesitantly, screwing up his brow and trying to conjure up words to say, "LA use to be one of the major cities in the US, right? Maybe in the world. Why are hitting small cities like Santa Barbara and this Simi place if LA is only a couple more hours drive away?"

That did pipe his interest. "Us? Go to LA?" Joshuason could already tell by his tone that this was not a good thing. He sounded incredulous. Vincent doubted that if he had asked for the four of them to head to the moon, the man would more surprised. As if he needed to confirm how ludicrous he found this notion, Edison whirled around towards him and demanded, "Are you off your rocker, boy?"

If Joshuason was any other man, he might have taken offense at that. Any other man who ever considered himself such, would have gotten annoyed at Edison calling him a "boy" for the second time, but, for him, this was the hundredth. He was simply use to it, just as he was use to the normal up and downs of human emotion. Yet, for him, it was always so hard to get worked up. If the world of human interaction and the querulous twists and turns of relationships, bonds and friendships were like tides, then where others were pulled and dragged by those tides, Joshuason was like a rock, strong and rigid and buried beneath the mud, and there he remained, allowing the tides to wash over him, but effect him in no other ways. Back below, he could feel again, but up here was a different world, so he had to be a different person to compensate.

So all he said was, "Is there a problem with that?"

A flash of something flew past Edison's eyes, and suddenly the Hispanic man began to relax, his scrunched up muscles and iron-cast back relaxing and the look in his eyes softening. He gave Joshuason a small twist of his mouth, which was all he was going to get as a indication of regret, the Private knew. But he was fine with that, "I forgot you didn't know." Edison stated, then sighed, "LA is filled with Tainted now, they call themselves the Diablians, and have renamed the city to Los Diablos."

"Diablos?" Joshuason wondered, frowning.

But Edison merely shrugged, "Don't ask me. I don't speak Spanish." Vincent was immediately struck by the irony, and found himself smirking. Edison caught his look and began to smirk too as he turned his back to pay full attention to his work once more. Things were quiet once more, comfortable, straightened out and set at ease. And that is the way it remained, with Stevens lost in his sleep, Edison lost in his work, and Joshuason lost in his thoughts about odd Pre-Infection words and the odd, old world, as the Van rode on and cars were pushed and crunched aside and the highway beneath was flattened down by massive wheels that turned and turned and turned.


	3. Calculations

The Howl of the Hunter

Chapter 3: Calculations

_You know, Pre-Infection, everyone was obsessed over how the world would end. All sorts of crazy theories were flung about: alien invasion, Nostradamus, nuclear holocaust, World War III, a meteorite, Global Warming, the Mayan Calender, 20-12, the Revelation account, so, so many. The excitable ones, they were eagerly awaiting a bang while the smarter ones were wary of the whimper. _

_But **no one** was listening for the sneeze. _

Anonymous

The only sign Joshuason had as forewarning was the sudden squeal of the brakes before the Van lurched to a stop. He had been sitting by the latched, bolted, steel doors when it had occurred, CIOSES on and a CISC, (The Compound Issued Storage Container_, _his inner semanticist helpfully added, which was really nothing but a glorified cylinder tube) with the maps and his notes held tightly in one gantlet and his CI-G1 held in the other. Swiftly, the young Private got to his feet and, silently, a similarly armored Corporal Edison eased open the door with a slight push of his massive shoulder. Only a sliver though, there was no need to _invite_ the Contaminated air into the Van after all. With a final glance at the now impassive figures of the metal men behind him, Private Joshuason slipped through the crack. The doors shut firmly behind him with a rumble and a snap.

They were still on the highway, the young man could tell. Before him, stretching back and back and back was the carved path that the Van had made. The corroded, decayed asphalt now had distinct tire tracks imbedded into it, like the road was made of clay and was malleable to the touch. But not only was the asphalt compressed under the Van's unrelenting motion, but fresh grass, shrubbery and vegetation which had torn apart the man-made pavement over the ages was also trampled. But, more importantly, the rusty, mossy mounds of metal that made up the hundreds of vehicles that had crowded the highways on May 13, 2010 were either shoved, crushed or thrown out of the way of the Van. Looking back, Joshuason could see the twisted heaps of metal on either side of the clear path that Dealths had made. A few of them were even on fire, with their flames snapping up at the sky with billows of smoke steaming up. Underneath his CIOSES helm, Joshuason winced, _The Tainted won't like that. Not only did we desecrate their Holy Grounds but we inadvertently started a wildfire. And the others back home wonder why they hate the Compound. _The young man sighed, (the sound coming out as a mess of static from his helm) before briskly walking up to the driver's side of the Van. The wall of green-covered dunes before them testified to the fact that they had yet to arrive at their destination.

There, right above the number-pad and door handle, was a single, circular slot. The Private did not waste time but instead inserted the container with a practiced ease. He stepped back when he heard the definitive click, signifying that the small chamber the slot led into was now airtight. He waited through the loud suction noise, audible even from Outside, of the air being recycled, and then there was silence. Until –

"Private." Came the Sarge's voice over the speakers.

Joshauson pressed the correct button on the number-pad and said, "Yes, sir?"

The Sarge's voice was as gruff as ever, "Is there a reason why the only stated place of interest is the Town Center?"

It took all of Joshauson's self control to not gulp. Dealths' voice was dangerous, levels of hidden meaning were laced into monotonous syllables, into softly spoken words. The Private could not even see the man and his words were hard to make out over the rumble of the Van's engines, but still the Sergeant's presence could be felt, a pliable entity – as solid as smoke and as elusive as a avalanche.

"As you can see on the maps, sir, the Town Center was the only place of note marked." The silence that came from that statement told the young man that he had said the wrong thing. Hurriedly, Joshuason worked the situation over in his mind, calculations racing at startling speeds. Besides the name of the city, the streets and the Center there were no other labels on the map, yet the Sarge still thought that his notes were incomplete, which meant he wanted information from a extraneous source like a text, a article, a speech, a specific rumor or –

Oh!

And, just like that, Joshuason remembered the Serge's mission overview and he felt like a fool, "However," He said, following in from his last sentence, "this city is also the home of the Ronald Reagan Library, a museum dedicated to a president, which was a leader of the former country of the United States of America. In 2008, one of the presidential debates – "

"That's enough, Private." Whether the Sarge found the young man's parroting to be annoying or amusing Vincent Joshuason could not tell. Smooth as silk, as dead as the internet, the man continued, "Return to your place and inform the Corporals that we have a hour until arrival." And, just like that, the conversation had ended. It was so jarring that for a moment the young man was unsure of what to say. Then, the sense of finality fell heavily upon him, and it was the sort of finality that comes had in hand with authority. As such, from his lips came the rehearsed answer.

"As you say, sir." Joshuason murmured and then dropped his hand form the intercom.

The moment that he was back inside the Van and once the Outside air was fully filtered, his cousin attacked him. He simply flung his CIOSES helmet to the side before leaping forward and grabbing Joshuason by the shoulders, while yelling, "What did you do, Bolts for Brains?" Vincent merely blinked at him, thrown off guard by the man's behavior. Obviously Stevens saw this because he snapped, "We could hear everything, moron! How could you forget something that the Sarge told you? You know how he is! If one of us messes up, he treats it as if we all did! IF I am stuck doing menial chores for three weeks, I _will_ make you pay."

Before Joshuason could get a chance to defend himself, Edison abruptly barked, "Stop the melodramatics, Corporal." Joshuason shot him a surprised look, so did Stevens for that matter, Edison barely ever stepped into one of their disputes, mostly because whenever Stevens went on one of these rants, Joshuason would merely ignore him and the man would lose his steam and it would all blow over easily enough – so for Edison to be going out of his way like this – Steven's early barb must still be stinging him. "If you are so adverse to taking orders, then you clearly chose the wrong profession." The way he leaned back against the metal wall after that, with his arms crossed, showed that, to Edison, the conversation was done.

Shockingly, instead of seeing the remark as incentive to become more riled up, Stevens actually mellowed down. His eyes darted to the side and he even started to, of all things, _pout_! "It wouldn't be that case if Dealths didn't pull the rank card so often." Both Joshuason and Edison froze up at that. Though they both knew that there was no way for Dealths to hear them, not with there being three walls and two chambers separating them from the front and that the communication was only one way, from the Sarge to them, they still couldn't help be a bit paranoid. Stevens himself was usually the most vocal about how the Sarge seemed to have "ears in the damn walls, the damn roof and in the freaking floorboards!", but, apparently, this time around he wasn't following his own advice, for he angrily ended by throwing up his hands, saying, " Things weren't like this during the Infection. Squad Primera were comrades, companions!"

Letting out a sigh, feeling his body relax, Joshuason let his eyes wander up to the ceiling and felt his finger tap his chin.

"I don't know about that," The words came out, "I heard Bill was a hardass."

When he glanced down he saw Stevens _and _Edison were both staring at him.

"What?" He asked, brows furrowed.

That was enough for Carl, "Cuz!" He exclaimed, eyes wide, voice loud, "You just told a joke!" He said this with a pointed finger in his direction. Then he suddenly thrust the finger forward again, "And you cussed. _You _Mr. Straight-Lace _**cussed**_! I've known you for my entire life and never … " He trailed off, just shaking his head as if to physically rid himself of his disbelief. But then it worked. For now the surprise was worn away and a hint of slyness crept in, just like that he slunk over to him and threw a arm around Joshuason's shoulders, "Now all you need to do is get drunk and la-"

But then Edison was there and was pulling Stevens' arm down. "Again. Stop it with the melodramatics, Corporal." He then turned his gaze on Joshuason, "So we have a hour until we hit our destination, correct?" Absentmindedly, the young Private nodded his head, for he was still thinking of what Stevens had been about to say, when something that Edison said clicked and suddenly he was being as energetic as Stevens.

"Wait! Why would the Serge ask me to inform you guys," He must have been startled for that word to slip out, "of when we are going to arrive if you were just going to hear it all over the intercom?" Perhaps he had made a error and instead of pushing the right button on the number-pad to speak solely to the Sergeant he instead had sent the conversation out to the entire Van. But he could have sworn … no. He did press the right button. But that meant there was only one other explanation, hesitantly, he asked, "Maybe the Serge accidentally -"

"The Serge doesn't make mistakes." Stevens said with bitter conviction.

History, the present; the past, the future. In the end, all of it is intertwined. Back in the Compound there exists the Order of the United Remembrance, a group of individuals who are dedicated to the task of deciphering the past. To one of the OUR, Stevens statement would have seemed curious, being so laden with meaning. Their wives, without a doubt, would have loved to stumble on such a murmured phrase, if only to catch a glimpse at the inner-workings of the Deployment Force.

But Joshuason was neither a historian or a gossip, so he let it slide.

Instead he walked over to one of the air-sealed crates and lay down his CI-GI on top of it. He then reached over to a nearby ledge and grabbed a rag, before searching for a spare cartridge and a box of bullets. With mechanical, rehearsed, memorized and methodical motions, Joshuason unloaded the pistol, took the rag and scrubbed the inside of the barrel, whipped the outside of the barrel, swabbed the trigger and the hammer, picked each bullet separately and whipped it down thoroughly, and then loaded the pistol and then unload it once more. Again and again, repeat and repeat and repeat. It did not take long for his mind to separate itself from his body. So that his body did the work and his mind wandered. Only remotely did he now experience things. Beneath his armored gloves, it all felt the same; the cloth, the gun, the bullets, the cartridge that went in and out, and even the crate itself when the Private occasionally brushed a hand over it. Monotonous in the end, all was monotonous.

A stifling silence had descended over his mind, though the Van kept going, the latched supplies kept shaking and Stevens and Edison kept talking – noises that rose and fell; rose and fell. The sights around him blurred, the sounds silenced and merged together into a muddled symphony, the earth tilted and he felt its vibrations under the soles of his feet, pushing up, up, up into him, making him think dizzying thoughts. Like that he was able to leap and leap, up to the moon, and dive down to the depths of the sea.

And then something _clicked. _

The Private whirled around and both Stevens and Edison froze, their bodies seeming to sink into the floor and mold to the metal. They were staring. Their breathing had slowed to a sudden gasp. Their mouths hung agape, where a second ago they had been moving up and down with the naturalness of speech. Their faces stood out, most of all, a ashen white. A white that mirrored the shade of his eyes now, not that he knew.

"We are here." Was all Joshuason said, his voice a emotionless drone.

"Location 9-FC has been reached." Came the Serge's gruff voice over the intercom seconds later. Neither Corporal had yet moved, but that changed with Dealths next words, "Be fully geared and fully armed. We go Outside in T-minus five." Simultaneously, all three men jumped to their feet and hunted for their helmets. In seconds all three of them had slide it on so that it fused with the neckline of the CIOSES with a audible hiss. For Joshuason, all that was necessary was for him to pick up his CI-G1, take the CISC and put it into one of the CIOSES hidden compartments, and then wait. Particularly for Edison to do a last minute inspection over his CI-G24 and then hoist the minigun with a heave. The sight of Edison, tall, massive, stoic and enshrouded in armor with a gun the size of a chair held before him never failed to impress.

But for one reason or another Edison found Joshuason to be more interesting then his own lifeline in the Outside, for his tinted lenses were burrowing into him. Stevens also had halted what he was doing, merely cradling his shotgun in his arms, as he fixed his attention on his cousin with this newly found interest. For a moment, he had been willing to simply ignore it, not knowing what else to do, but he finally could not take it any longer, "What?" he snapped at them, though more towards Stevens, because he _knew_ the man was somehow to blame.

Edison turned his massive frame over to Stevens, and when he spoke the three-way radio made the man's grumbles ominous and thunderous, "He has a right to know, Corporal." Through the radio Joshuason could hear the intake of a breath, a sure signal that Stevens was about to throw in a objection. The Hispanic man was swift to add, "You are his cousin, I have no place in this matter." At this point, under his helm, Joshuason was steaming. They were talking about him, he was right there next to the two of them and they were talking about him as if he wasn't. But, worse then that, he had no idea what they were talking about! At all! Fighting to remain in control, for he has to be in control, he threw out:

"Just what are you two – "

The Van's doors were flung open.

The three armored men turned to see their Sergeant standing before them. His CIOSES seemed to emit its own light as the falling sun behind him basked his figure. His feet were set in the standard DF offensive stance, with his CI – G2 poised on his fingertips. Yet it was the sight behind him that caught Joshuason's attention and if Stevens' exclaimed cuss and Edison's near growl was anything to go by, they saw it too.

Behind the Sarge was a wide street, a main street, which stretched back and back and back for many miles, with hundreds of buildings, of various sizes, on either side of it. The street winded up until it reached a steep hill when it then faded out of sight. In the distance, other hills rose, towering sharply over this urban settled one. Hills that did not have roads or housing ever _before _the Infection. It is these hills that have overlooked this single road which had dissected this town for who knows how long.

The very same road which was now completely and utterly deserted.

There should have been hundreds of cars, having slammed into each other and piled up during the Infection, clogging the streets. Even in the worse case scenario where the cars combusted and flames overtook the city, the moss covered wreckage still would have been spread through the street like a lumpy blanket. Slowly, Joshuason eased himself down and he heard more then saw Stevens and Edison do the same. The Sarge quickly shut the doors and punched in the correct code and the Van was now dormant.

But Joshuason had yet to take his eyes off – he glanced up at the nearest vine-ridden stoplight – First Street.

"I do not understand it." Joshuason finally said, making Dealths turn away from the door and make Edison and Stevens focus on him also. Feeling the weight of their gazes, Joshuason went on, heedless, "This street is clearly one of the major streets in the city, during the Infection it should have been swamped with people trying to desperately escape."

"Could there be a major clan of Tainted in the area?" Edison suggested.

But the Sarge dismissed this notion, "The reports indicate otherwise, besides there is no clan of Tainted in the known world who has the manpower and resources necessary to not only push the wreakage onto the sidewalk but to salvage the vehicles to such a extent that not even scraps remain. Also, I have seen no signs of life in the vicinity on the trip here. No huts or dwellings made from tin surrounded by graffiti walls or barbwire fences. More importantly, look over there – " He pointed to a residence home, a small, squat tanned thing, though it might have been yellow at the time of the Infection.

In the driveway of that house sat a single moss covered dune of metal.

"So the Infection must have struck at night here," Stevens piped, irritation lacing his tone, "Mystery solved. Now let's – "

"No." Joshuason interrupted, brows furrowing in concentration underneath his helm. "That does not fit. If the Infection struck them at night and unawares, then there still should have been cars out. Not everyone slept at night Pre-Infection, many had night shifts, late night classes, meetings, and the like. There would not be as much traffic as there would be in the day, but still– "

"Lockdown" Edison simply stated, confidence and surety ringing.

The three other men looked at him, and, in particular, the Sarge's aura radiated the demand for answers. Yet still nary a word was uttered. Nevertheless, Edison continued, no less assured of his conclusion, "There must have been a citywide lockdown, with each of the citizens confined in their homes or guided to a Safe House." The term itself caused shivers to crawl up Joshuason's spine, and he could nearly imagine the cramped, barred rooms, filled to the brim with rations, supplies, weaposn and ammo. He could even picture the tragic scribblings on the walls – words that were now the mere echoes of past ghosts. Thinking of the Dying Times in ruins such as these … it was as if he was calling upon the name of the Infection, mocking it's, and the Survivors', memory.

"How could they have enforced such a thing?" Joshuason asked to distract himself.

"They enforced it the way the government enforced everything during the Infection," The Sarge said, some emotion leaking into his tone, but it was unnamed and incorporeal. "They offered the promise of survival, and if you did not keep your wits about you and did as you were told you were left to your fate." Out of the corner of his eye, Joshuason looked at this Squad Leader and wondered if he too was calling on the name of the Infection. But then, abruptly, the Sergeant turned on his heel and the mood was shattered. "It is time that we proceeded. Private, come to me. Bring the CISC." Joshuason did as instructed.

The Sergeant and the Private approached the side of the Van, leaving Edison and Stevens behind for the moment. Being sure to keep his CI – G1 pointed downward , Joshuason calmly pressed a indentation on his CIOSES and the CISC was suddenly ejected out of his shoulder-pad, where he had previously stored it. He handed the cylinder over. The Sarge wasted no time in unsealing it, popping open the lid with a strong twist. Beneath his helm, Joshuason winced. The maps would now need to be Decontaminated. He knew that the Infection, if it even existed anymore, could not harm a inanimate object, but still, it was the concept that mattered, not the deed.

The Sarge pressed the map of Simi Valley on the side of the massive vehicle. Joshuason glanced around and spotted a gas station to the left. It was situated on the corner of this street, First, and – his eyes dance up to the stoplight next to the gas station – Los Angeles Avenue The name caught the Private by surprise. Los Angeles, Los Diablos now, was so far away. Why would the people of this city actually name one of their major streets after it?

He pushed the odd thought away fro the moment and poked a finger on the paper, at the spot where the line First, which went vertically down the page, meet with the line labeled Los Angeles Avenue, which went horizontally across. "This is our current position." He said, looking up at the Sarge and quickly dropping his finger.

The Sarge nodded his metal-claded head. "And here," The man stated, gesturing to the Town Center, "is our first point of interest, the second, the Reagan Library, is off map. However, I believe it is up here," His finger moved up, off the map and onto the metal, "Further east, away from the bulk of the town and off the freeway."

"The Ronald Reagan Freeway." Joshuason suddenly remembered.

The Private could have sworn the other man chuckled at that, but it was likely that it was just a influx of static in the frequency. The Sarge was now looking at him, and Joshuason felt his back restrict, for this was why he was singled out. His superior officer continued, "It is my intention to also hit these main streets," He pointed first to Los Angeles and then to another street higher up – Cochran. "With that in mind, how many hours will it take to explore each location, find places of interest, and carry the valuables back to the Van?"

Joshuason nearly felt like sighing. Of course, calculations.

He hid his disappointment well, instead he threw a inquisitive eye over the map, "To begin with," He started as his mind began to beat with its own pulse and breath slowly to life, "there is no chance we can do it all in one day, even taking into consideration skipping dinner and sleep, which is something you would never permit us to do." If that was not the truth, nothing was. Joshuason went on, "If I am to assume that you will stick to your routine and have the Squad return to the Van at 3 to eat a quick meal and then settle for the night, then – " By this time the equations, helped along by the legend on the side of the map, were done, worked out in his cranking mind, "We will be able to hit five places of interest on Los Angeles alone, a combination of three and two on Los Angeles and Cochran, or a place of interest at each of the locations, though we may not have time to reach the Library." He paused then, staring at the map, but not truly seeing it, nor seeing any colors or sights at all. He felt his head tilt to the side as he thought, mainly because it felt like it was being brought down by a monstrous burden. Finally, Joshuason ended, "If we were to all go fully armed, we would only be able to bring back twenty pounds worth of salvaged supplies. If Edison were to leave behind his CI – G24, then that amount would be doubled."

"Impressive, Private." Was all that the Sarge revealed of his thoughts on the matter. But, to be honest, Joshuason was surprised (and flattered) by the meager praise the man did give. Seargent Dealths simply did not confide his thoughts, opinions, reasons or feelings to any of his men. He told them what to do and expected them to do it. Simple. Clean. Straight-forward. It was the way Joshuason liked it. It made things easier on his strained mind. The sudden change, no matter how small, was disconcerting. But before the Private could get a chance to recover, the Sarge stated, "Return to the Coporals Alpha and Omega. I will then give you further instruction at a later time." The Private nodded and turned around, heading off to the direction of the two armored forms a bit farther back, but before he could get very far, a thought struck him. Before, he had not bothered to dig too deeply into why the Sarge choose to do what he did, but now, suddenly, he understood. The Sarge needed time to think, to plot what their next course of action should be. Underneath his helm, Joshuason found himself biting his bottom lip.

He was not one to hesitate, much less _disobey_, a order.

Yet still –

With a twinge of unease, Joshuason blurted out, "Sir, I feel it is prudent to inform you that if you take more then – "

"Go, Private."

Now, Joshuason was not much of a betting man, but, at that instant, if you asked him to put high stakes on the gamble that the Sarge was truly amused when he said that, he would. A odd sensation came over him on that realization, swift and sharp, that he was getting a glimpse at the mindset of Sergeant Dealths, and that he was a man who found some of his actions to be amusing. It was … odd. For the most part, prior to this, the Sarge was just that – the Sarge. A nonentity, in many ways, a armored form that gave orders that must be obeyed. Things had just shifted, and Joshuason did not like rapid changes.

Yet that did not alter the fact that he had to force a smile off his face, a smile that no one would ever see, once he returned.


End file.
